On December 24th, 2008 I was almost 21 and drinking wine at my Grandma’s house with my family. We were having a good time. I don’t really talk to that side of the family anymore though. I got a phone call from my best friend, Kyle. I joking let my uncle answer. Kyle asked to talk to me. He sounded angry.
The next few words he said were like a a fucking nuclear bomb that seared my fucking brain for life. He said, “NineMileTower, Steve died (in Iraq). A bridge gave out, his hummer flipped, and he drowned.”
That was in 2008. I’m 37 now. I have two beautiful girls and an amazing wife. I think of Steve all the time. I ask myself, “Why do I deserve these amazing kids, wife and life, and he had to die?”
I fucking hate Christmas. I hate the stupid music. I hate fake bullshit decorations. I hate that I’m supposed to pretend that every Christmas it doesn’t fucking kill me that he isn’t here. I’m here enjoying my kids and their holiday and he’s dead.
I fucking hate Christmas.
That’s rough.
My best buddy died 20ish years ago, fell asleep at the wheel on the highway maybe 1km before his exit. There’s no rhyme or reason to this shit, he certainly didn’t deserve to die anymore than I deserve to live.
Yet here we are, and they aren’t.
When it gets harder, I tell myself to enjoy these things; he would if he was here.
Hey, I won’t pretend this actually works much, but it’s still nice to remind myself for a fleeting moment that he wouldn’t want me to stay in this gloomy mood.